Guards! Guards!
by Mrs Snowball
Summary: A series of oneshots based around Corona's semi-adequate soldiers; their highs, their lows and, of course, their attempts to catch a certain thief.
1. They just can't get his nose right

_A/N: Before I go any further, I'd like to thank **AIOfanNCRM** for introducing me to this format. _

_Anyway, here's my first collection of oneshots. And yes, they're about the guards. Be warned; there will be OCs in this, and not all the stories will be humorous. _

_Anyway, let's get going... _

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><p><strong>1. They just can't get his nose right<strong>

Arthur Todd (Artie to his friends) was hunched over his desk, his long nose inches away from the parchment he was using. The smell of ink filled his nostrils. Arthur didn't mind this. It helped draw him into his own world, just as the voices around him jerked him sharply out of it.

"Don't forget about the hair! It was dark, and sort of floppy-"

"Longer than ours, but not _really _long. Not like a girl's. You getting that, Arthur?"

Arthur nodded, pushing his spectacles further up his nose. He'd got it, alright.

When Arthur was a boy, his parents had urged him to find a more useful pastime. They disapproved of the way he'd sit on the steps, sketchpad in hand, drawing a bird or a blade of grass. Waste of time, they said. He'd never make any money with it. Well, Arthur had the last laugh, because his drawing skills were making him plenty of money now. If there was a poster hanging in the streets, you could be fairly sure he was the artist responsible. He'd illustrated everything; bake sales, festivals, plays... and "wanted" posters, of course. They were his real source of income.

He was at his desk, in a dingy little room overlooking the town square, with a trio of guards pacing about in front of him. There was never just one, and they would always be pacing, impatient to tell him some little detail they'd picked up on, often correcting the other men in the process. It was Arthur's job to see through their bickering and figure out which description was accurate. Once he did, he'd copy it onto the parchment, and soon the whole kingdom would know who the guards were after this time. Sometimes the guy would be caught in less than a week, and Arthur never had to worry about getting his hairline right again. But – and this was far more often – there were also the men who seemed to be constantly stealing, murdering or just irritating the Captain enough to get their faces drawn nearly every week. There was one man whose face Arthur had drawn at least fifty times; so often, in fact, that he wasn't even sure he _needed _those three men to describe him. But here they were anyway, following procedures.

"He's got a beard," announced one of the guards; a skinny little fellow who didn't look like he was capable of growing any facial hair of his own. "Not a proper one. Just a little one, at the end of his chin..."

The second guard sighed. "It's a goatee, Michael."

"Is that what they call it?"

"Yes. My brother has one." The second guard leant against the wall, clearly bored by the whole thing. "And he's got this huge grin-"

"I can't stand that grin," muttered the third guard. He was by far the eldest of the trio, with a bristly moustache and a stomach that just about fitted into his armour. "Makes it look like he's better than us."

"But he's got it, hasn't he, Errol? That's our job; to tell Arthur here what he looks like."

"Fair enough, Luke." Errol turned his gaze to Arthur. "He's got that grin, and this smug expression; one eyebrow raised, that kind of thing. You must know the one I mean, Arthur. You see it on young men all the time these days, when they think they're better than us older folk..."

"What about his nose?" asked Arthur.

The three soldiers stared at him.

"His nose," Arthur repeated, although he dreaded the answer. "What does _that _look like?"

There was an awkward silence. After a quick glance at the poster – which, apart from a blank spot where the nose should be, was almost finished – Errol spoke.

"Well, it's sort of like a squashed tomato. Bit like the Captain's nose, except smaller."

"It is not!" said Michael.

"Oh, you were actually paying attention, were you?"

"I _was_, and it was nothing like that! It was really long and pointed-"

"You're _both_ wrong," said Luke. "It's lumpy. If anything, Arthur, it looks like a sock after you stuff oranges in it."

"Why've you been stuffing oranges in socks?" asked Michael.

But Errol wasn't concerned about what Luke had been doing with oranges. "It is nothing of the sort. Don't listen to them, Arthur; they're just silly little boys."

Luke sniffed. "Silly? I'm a lot smarter than you are!"

"Like hell you are! You can't even get a man's nose right!"

"How dare you! I can describe _your _nose right now..."

Arthur groaned inwardly. This _always_ happened. No matter how many times he was asked to draw Flynn Rider, no matter how many guards were placed in front of him; the one thing they _never_ agreed on was his nose. It was amazing, really. They could remember his hair, his eyes, the expression on his face... but when it came to his nose, they drew a complete blank._ All the time._

He didn't even bother asking again; he knew he'd never get a straight answer. He never did. In fact, Arthur suspected that the business of getting Rider's nose right had turned into a competition for the guards describing him. They all saw it as an excuse to prove they were smarter than their fellow soldiers, so the odds of them coming to an agreement decreased even further. All Arthur could do was copy his original poster – yes, even with the blank spot in it – while they got on with upstaging each other.

"Listen, Arthur, these boys are talking nonsense! It's like a tomato!"

"No, it's not! It's like this-"

Fortunately, Arthur was saved from Michael's demonstration of Rider's nose by a knock at the door.

"Come in!" called Arthur. _Please come in, _he silently added. _Please save me from going through this again... _

The visitor obliged, and when they saw him, the three soldiers shut up immediately. They stared at the newcomer warily. Not that Nathan Fisher was someone who could strike fear into the hearts of men. Heck, even Michael could've beaten him in a fight. But if Nathan was here, it meant the Captain had sent him, and none of those men were stupid enough to mess with _him._

"The Captain wants you back at the barracks, guys," he told them. "We're going to start this afternoon's training session, and he didn't expect you to be here this long."

"It's not _my_ fault, Nathan," sighed Luke. "It's these other two; they don't know what-"

"Tell it to the Captain, Luke. That's not my problem." Then, to Arthur: "have you got enough details there, Arthur?"

"I could see him in my mind's eye, sir."

"Good." And, with that, Nathan swung around and marched out the door.

"Did you get what I said about the nose?" asked Errol as he and the others followed suit. Arthur nodded quickly. He didn't feel like talking about it anymore.

_That nose... that damn nose... _

He looked at his finished posters, at that blank gap on each of them. Nathan Fisher would be back in the evening, and he'd want these posters ready by then. Well, his superior would. And if they weren't, Arthur could kiss this job goodbye, and the nice salary that came with it.

So, picking up his pen again, Arthur did what he always did when this problem arose.

He placed the first poster in front of him. In seconds, the blank gap was replaced with a nose which looked suitably like a squashed tomato. He put it to one side and grabbed another one, this time making the nose look roughly the way he imagined a sock full of oranges to look. A third poster. A different nose.

After all, one of these descriptions had to be accurate.


	2. The new batch

_A/N: Thank you so much to all of you who reviewed the first chapter. I'm glad you all liked it; I didn't think this idea would take off. _

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><p><strong>2. <strong>**The new batch **

When Captain Rusthaven got his first glimpse of the new recruits, it took all his effort to stop himself from groaning out loud. As it was, he couldn't keep the look of disappointment off his face as he strode towards them.

_More of the same. _

20 young men. Most of them were teenagers. Nearly all of them were awkward-looking, with narrow shoulders. Just like the last bunch, and the one before that.

_Damn it, _thought Rusthaven to himself. _Can't we get recruits who actually look like they've hit puberty? Just once? _

He did not say this aloud, of course. It was best not to let those men know how disappointed he was; if they knew, they'd either lose faith or respect for him. Lose the latter, and they'd be less likely to follow his orders. Lose the former, and they'd be less likely to follow those orders to the best of their ability.

What he _did _do was stand in front of them, his back straight and his chest puffed out. The younger men took on a similar stance. At least most of them got it right this time.

"So," the Captain announced, looking down the line of new recruits. "You're the best we've got, are you?"

Sadly, they probably were. Anyone dangerously unsuitable would've been weeded out by the physical examinations.

"You reckon you've got what it takes, do you?"

Of course they did. Why else would they be here?

Sometimes, if he got lucky, some of these men actually_ did _have what it took to be a soldier. For every five layabouts, you could have one man who was smart, or was good with a crossbow. If he got really lucky, this guy would stick around, gain a few pounds, and emerge from his cocoon as a tough and devoted officer. Rusthaven knew this was possible. After all, _he'd_ been one of those scrawny young men once, as had several other guards who'd shown what they were capable of. But, for every capable man, you had the layabouts to deal with. These were the men who'd been drawn to the Guards by the promise of fame and women, or forced to enlist by proud parents who wanted the honour of having a soldier in the family. About half of these were spoilt brats who'd been mollycoddled for most of their lives and were utterly horrified by the idea of having to start training at 6am. And, of course, there were some who just weren't cut out for it. Maybe they were too clumsy, or rebellious, or just not good enough. Those men were usually the first to go, and the Captain wasn't upset to see the back of them.

Rusthaven knew he was being too cynical, but he had good reason to be. For him, this was not just a job. What he was doing – and, for that matter, what these men were doing – was keeping up a tradition. When he was growing up, the Guards were both feared and admired. Nobody messed with them, and they were always treated with respect. It was the Captain's job to make sure they were worthy of that respect, to make sure that the people they passed in the street looked upon them with admiration. How could they do that if every soldier they saw was some awkward little wimp who couldn't even catch a pickpocket?

He looked at the line again, wondering what was in store for him. How many of them would show up late and complain about the timing being "unreasonable"? How many would actually be able to fire in a straight line? How many would be brave enough to face a wanted man, even if said man was twice their size?

The Captain would find out soon enough.

They all would.


	3. Drunk on the job

**3. Drunk on the job **

When Errol had bought the bottle of wine, he'd only intended to take a few sips of it. It was late evening, it was his turn to keep watch at the gates, and he thought a little bit of wine would help keep him awake. It was good stuff, too; imported from Italy, just how he liked it. The fact that such stuff gave him a lousy headache and tended to make him depressed had, as always, conveniently slipped his mind.

The old guard glanced down the road. It was empty; had, in fact, been empty for several hours. No citizen would be dumb enough to be out here at midnight. No thief would, either, what with the weather being so cold. It was going to be a long night, and Errol knew it.

He leant against the enormous archway, took a quick glance at the bridge (empty; what a surprise) and took another sip of wine.

Drinking while on duty was strictly prohibited. No one knew this better than Errol. He'd been a guard for well over thirty years, had devoted his life to the job, and had taken the time to memorize every single rule. Normally, he'd have flinched at the thought of bringing alcohol with him when he had to work the night shift. He'd certainly have berated the younger men for doing such things. But he'd had a rough day, and he felt he needed to treat himself. Besides, he could handle his drink. At least, he couldn't remember _not_ being able to. A smile spread over Errol's wrinkled face at the thought of this amazing ability. He'd just love to boast about it. He'd relish the thought of walking right up to the Captain and saying; "still doubt my capability, _sir_? I was up all night with this bottle and I didn't so much as close my eyes! What do you make of _that_, Roddy-boy? Eh?"

The thought of Captain Rusthaven made Errol take an enormous gulp of wine. That was another reason he'd brought it; to spite him. To show that upstart that orders meant nothing if the soldier giving them was incompetent. He took another gulp as he remembered what Rusthaven had said to him that day. He'd suggested that Errol should consider retiring. Retiring! He was only 52! Alright, he was no spring chicken and he'd gained a few pounds, but he was in much better shape than the rest of those-

_What was that? _

Errol straightened up and reached for his spear, glancing around again. Nope; there was nothing there. It was the shadows; they were playing tricks on him, messing with his nerves. Another sip of wine should clear that right up.

What really got to Errol was that _he_ should've been the Captain. He'd had years of experience, and he was good at training the new recruits. He had no family, no one to distract him from his duty. When old Winters had retired, Errol had been so sure of his upcoming promotion that he'd bought himself a new coat. But that was not to be. The title Errol had coveted had gone to Roderick Rusthaven, and look what he'd done with it! Look at the scrawny whelps he'd recruited! Why, if _Errol_ had been in charge, he'd have hired only the best! He'd have caught the likes of that Rider boy long ago!

But, he realised as he took a long sip from his bottle, that was not the way things worked out. He was stuck at the bottom, languishing alongside men who could barely classify as soldiers. He'd been there for thirty years, and he wasn't going any higher. His entire life had been a waste.

"Need a little help?"

Errol hadn't even known he was about to fall over until the young man had grabbed his arm. Where he'd come from, Errol couldn't tell, but he was heading for the bridge and the old guard had almost fallen right in his path. He staggered to his feet immediately, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

"Thank you, boy... don't know what came over me..."

For a moment, he thought he recognised the man who'd helped him. He was dressed in simple, scruffy clothes and was wearing a large hat which hid most of his face, but what Errol _did_ see looked strangely familiar to him. By the time he registered this, however, the young man was already on the bridge, his back to the guard.

"Hey!" Errol yelled, suddenly aware of how slurred his speech sounded. "Who are you?"

The young man just kept walking; in fact, when he heard Errol's voice, he broke into a run. Whoever he was, he was obviously anxious to get home; and who could blame him, on a night like this? Errol was in no mood to race after him. It wasn't that important, anyway.

"Thank the Lord for people like that," he muttered, taking another sip of wine (the last one, he told himself). "People like that... they make this job worthwhile..."

It wasn't until many hours later, when the Captain told him about Flynn Rider's latest robbery, that he realised just who that young man had been. By then, he had more important things to worry about; like, for instance, how to explain why he'd been found asleep at his post, a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand.

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><p><em>AN: What you've just seen was my first attempt at writing for Eugene. Let me know if he was too OOC. _


	4. The Festival, part 1: Cupcakes

**4. The Festival, part 1 – cupcakes **

He would never admit it, not if you asked him, but Sergeant Gordon was very fond of the Festival of Lights. It was the one day in his life which was both pleasant and peaceful. Unfortunately, this year's festival was less pleasant, and it was all because of the young man next to him.

"I _still_ don't see why I'm here. Look at this. Nothing's going to happen. This... this is an insult, a complete insult..."

Gordon tried to ignore Luke's whinging, just like he'd been trying to ignore it for the past two hours. He focused his attention on two children running towards a market stall. How did kids get fascinated by such simple things? He almost envied them.

"... The Captain could've taken _me_ with him. I'd have done a far better job than Michael – _he_ wouldn't recognise a thief if one of 'em walked up to him and said hello..."

There seemed to be stalls everywhere; more than last year, Gordon reckoned. There was one selling bread. He wouldn't mind some bread, actually; too bad he was on duty.

"... And if he insisted on making us stay here, why couldn't he have given us the day off? At least then we could actually _do_ something-"

"Luke," Gordon snapped. "I get it."

The younger guard wrinkled his nose at him. "What?"

"I get it, Luke. You're mad because the Captain didn't pick you for the recovery team. But just get over it, alright? Grumbling about it isn't going to change anything!"

"But I still don't see why I wasn't-"

"Well, the fact is, you weren't. _This_ is your assignment, Luke. _This_, right here. So just keep your eyes open for any suspicious activity."

"But nothing is going to happen," Luke moaned. "Can you see any thieves around here? No. Because they're all out in the forest. No thief is going to come here today, when there are so many people around."

"You don't know much about thieves, do you?" asked Gordon.

"I do, _actually_. A man broke into our house once; he stole most of Mother's jewellery. That was in the middle of the night, not in broad daylight like today. No thief would be stupid enough to try anything today."

The Sergeant didn't even dignify that with a response. Luke, he'd discovered, was one of those men who thought he knew more than he actually did. He'd seen his type before; came from a wealthy family, brought up in a big house with plenty of books, and actually thought all that was enough to make him a good soldier. No wonder the Captain didn't pick him! Gordon could see it now; "I don't think Rider's going to be hiding in a _tree_, Sir, that's _much_ too high for a thief..."

"Could I have a cupcake, at least? They're being sold over there, and they're _so nice_, too. My mother used to get those for us when we were little..."

Gordon's stomach rumbled as he followed Luke's gaze. He wouldn't say no to a cupcake; it seemed like hours since he'd had lunch. It probably _was_ hours since he had lunch. Keeping track of time wasn't Gordon's strong point.

"You know the rules," the Sergeant replied. "No shopping while we're on duty."

"But we're _not _shopping, are we, if we just buy a cupcake? We're just getting something to eat. That's hardly illegal, is it?"

"You can get one when the other guards take over from us."

"But that could be _hours_ away-"

"I said no, Luke."

He walked a little bit faster, leaving the tempting cupcake stall behind him. Luke followed suite, mercifully silent. Unfortunately, this silence didn't last long.

"Sir!"

"What?"

"I thought I saw something."

Gordon glared at him. "What, Luke? Another cupcake stall?"

"No, it was a girl. A blonde one, with lots of hair."

The Sergeant shook his head. A blonde? In _this _kingdom? He had to be making it up. Probably thought he'd distract his superior while he went and got a cupcake. Well, Gordon wasn't having any of that.

"Luke," he said at last. "I know this probably isn't what you expected. I know you signed up because you thought you'd be chasing down thieves and swaggering around in a uniform. But the least you can do is try and do the job properly. Don't go making up stories."

"But I-"

"No, Luke, I don't want to hear any more. Just... just look out for trouble, alright?"

"I did see her," muttered the younger guard, but that was the last thing he said for a while. The two men walked away, and the blonde girl was forgotten – at least for the time being.


	5. The Festival, part 2: Promises

**5. The Festival, part 2 – The importance of keeping promises **

_Dedicated to "AIOfanNCRM", partly for one of the names, but mostly for everything else. __You are awesome. _

Lieutenant Tranur was at the edge of a clearing, leaning against a tree. The other three members of the recovery team were spread out in front of him, sitting around a small campfire. If they were aware of what was going to happen tomorrow, they made no sign.

They were lucky to be alive. No one had bothered to point this out, but they were all aware of it. They could've drowned, any of them. The fact they'd all survived was nothing short of miraculous. But the Lieutenant wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking of his children.

"_Papa, will you come with us this year?"_

_Felix had sprung this question on him two days ago, after they'd had their supper. The Lieutenant had been sitting with his son in his lap, absent-mindedly watching Agatha practising her guitar and listening to Felix babble on about the lanterns they were making at nursery school. He was only six, and it was his first time making his own lantern. _

"_You don't need me, Felix," Tranur had said. "Just stick with your mother and sister and you'll be alright."  
>"But I wish you were there, Papa," insisted the boy. "You're never with us." <em>

_Behind him, Agatha had stopped practising. She was staring at him expectantly, fiddling with one of her plaits. The girl was looking more like her mother every day. _

_Felix noticed her, too. "See, Agatha wants you to come. So does Mama. Can't you come to see the lanterns with us? Just once?" _

_Well, that was a good question. At the time, nothing much had been happening; there hadn't been any serious crime for awhile. Maybe Tranur could get a day off for once. He certainly had enough authority to ask for one. _

"_Alright, son," he said, ruffling Felix's dark hair. "I will." _

_The boy was obviously thrilled; it was Agatha who doubted him. _

"_You alright, honey?" _

"_Do you promise to come with us, Papa?" asked his daughter. _

"_Of course."_

"_Swear on it?"  
>"Alright, I swear on it." The Lieutenant reached towards his daughter, pulling her into an embrace. "I promise I'll come with you to the festival." <em>

Lieutenant Tranur considered himself an honest man. He never broke the law even before he became a guard, never got into fights unless he had to and always tried to see the best in everything. He was not a man who broke his promises, especially when they were made to his own children. And, to be fair, he'd expected to keep it; even when the Captain had chosen him to accompany him on his search for Rider and the Stabbingtons, the Lieutenant hadn't expected it to last for more than one day. Now he was stuck out here in the forest, and the festival was tomorrow. He'd never be able to get back in time... would he?

_Go ask the Captain. Go on. Ask if you can leave. _

The Lieutenant shook his head firmly. No; he couldn't do that. He couldn't abandon his post, especially now. They'd already lost Conli back at the pub.

He scanned the group again. His commanding officer was staring at the campfire. Nathan Fisher was sitting close by, making sure the Captain's armour wouldn't rust. He was a good lad, Nathan; devoted to his job and extremely loyal to the Captain. But he was also a scrawny lad. He could follow orders and remember messages, but he wouldn't stand a chance in a brawl. Michael Sanders, who was currently playing with his fingers, was an even worse choice. The boy was bigger than Nathan and he was good with a sword, but he was dumb as a post. How could he deal with a thief as cunning as Rider?

(It never occurred to the Lieutenant to wonder _why_ the Captain had picked these men. It wasn't his place to say.)

But even as he realised this, he was walking towards Captain Rusthaven. The larger man heard him coming, and the moment Tranur saw his face, he was sorely tempted to just turn around again.

Captain Rusthaven was particularly irked by the day's events. All the men were struggling with their brush with death, but the Captain had another problem to add to the list; he was humiliated. Rider had been within his grasp, and he'd lost him _again._ How hard could it be to catch one criminal? He'd never had this problem before; _never!_ What _was _it about Rider? How could he be so _vexing?_ Oh, and to top it all off, he'd lost Maximus, too. In some way, that was even worse. Criminals were a dime a dozen. Maximus was one of a kind.

As he sat by the fire, dealing with the shame and the appalling headache he'd had since his encounter with Rider's frying pan, Rusthaven was in no mood to talk to anyone. But Lieutenant Tranur wasn't a man who gave up easily.

"Captain," he began, sitting down next to him. "You know I'm not a man who would abandon my post under normal circumstances."

The Captain didn't reply.

"You've known me for many years. You know I'm a man of my word, and I would never do anything to-"

"What are you getting at, Lieutenant?"

"I would like to return to Corona, sir; for the festival."

The look Rusthaven gave him would have sent some men running in the opposite direction.

"Oh," he hissed, "so you _are_ abandoning your post?"

"Of course not, sir. But I made a promise to my children -"

"And you think that's a good excuse, do you? You think you can use your kids to get out of doing your job?"

"Absolutely not. But I _promised _them I would take them to the festival. I-"

He shut his mouth. The Captain wouldn't understand the importance of "swearing on it".

"What made you think I'd even _consider_ letting you do that?" asked Rusthaven.

"Well, sir, I thought you'd understand. You have a son."  
>"My son can't even talk yet."<p>

"Yes, but you know what I mean. If he wanted you to take him somewhere, you would, right?"

"Not if it stops me from doing my job," the Captain replied almost immediately. "Not if it means I'd have to let scum like Rider go free. Your job _has_ to come first, Tranur. Remember that before you start making promises you can't keep."

The Lieutenant sighed. The argument was over, and he knew it. He slumped forward, defeated, while his commanding officer stood up.

"We rise at dawn," he barked. "We'll head back to the dam; try to find their trail. No one is leaving this forest until Rider is caught!" He glanced pointedly at Tranur. "_No one!"_


	6. How was your day?

**6. ****"How was your day?"**

Morwenna Dufraine had really grown to hate Flynn Rider.

Logically, she had no reason to. She'd never met the man. He'd never stolen from her, which would've really ticked her off. So why did she hate him?

Well, it'll become apparent in a matter of minutes.

Carefully, she picked up the plate containing the slice of apple pie that had been prepared half an hour earlier. It had not been prepared by her. Not that this was important; the Captain certainly didn't keep her around for her cooking skills.

"Morwenna!" an irritated voice boomed from the sitting room. "Where's that damn pie?"  
>"It's coming, dearest!"<p>

"Well, make it come faster! I've had a rough day!"

_Oh, I'll bet you have, _thought Morwenna, rolling her eyes. _And you're going to tell me all about it, whether I want to hear it or not... _

On her way out, she caught sight of the mirror in the hallway and struck a pose, sucking in her stomach and sticking out her chest. No harm in reminding him just _why_ he kept her around, after all, even if it wasn't enough to get him to marry her... yet. She glanced at her reflection, her hand on her waist and the plate in her hand. Privately, she thought she looked like the perfect wife. She beamed at the reflection, tossing her red hair away from her face-

"_MORWENNA!"_

"Alright, I'm coming!"

She sighed dramatically and strode into the room, trying to replace her bored expression with one of extreme concern. After all, her beloved was upset, right? She had to act like she _cared. _  
>"Took you long enough," growled Captain Rusthaven as she placed the plate in front of him.<p>

"Well, I'm sorry, dearest, but pies take awhile to cook." Not that she'd know, since she never cooked them herself.  
>"You could've made me something else."<p>

"But you sounded _so upset_," Morwenna simpered, perching on the arm of his chair. "And it's apple pie; your _favourite_. I thought it might cheer you up."

It was the worst piece of acting she'd ever done. Had she been back on the stage, the audience would've seen through it in a matter of seconds, but it actually seemed to work on the Captain. He smiled, muttered something about "appreciating the thought" and bit into the slice with all the grace of a pig at the trough. Morwenna wrinkled her nose. The Captain didn't notice.

This certainly wasn't the glamorous life Morwenna had expected. When she'd taken up with Rusthaven, she'd expected something which befitted her new social status; beautiful dresses, fancy jewellery, all the stuff she'd dreamt about as a girl. At the very least, she expected to be married by now. The story Rusthaven had come up with, about her being his housekeeper, was looking more and more ridiculous with each month. It looked particularly ridiculous when you saw their son, who was nearly the spitting image of his father. People had already figured out what she really was, and they were _talking. _Morwenna couldn't stand _talk _unless she had some control over what was being said. Her only way of retaining some kind of dignity was to get the Captain to marry her; so, every day, she made an effort to look like an ideal wife. She pretended to cook him food, pretended to wash his clothes, did things to him that couldn't be discussed in public... and she asked him that question.

"So, Roddy, how was your day?"  
>The Captain put down his pie. "Oh, where do I start? First the men were being layabouts, as usual. Then one of the horse got out and nearly trampled the stable boy. Oh, and to make things worse, Rider struck again at lunch..."<p>

He settled back in his chair, clearly preparing himself for a long rant.

"We were sitting there, eating, when word got to us that he'd stolen from some Count something-or-other and was running through the high street. I rounded up ten of my best men, because I was definitely gonna catch him. You remember the trouble we had last time, didn't you?"  
>Morwenna nodded. How could she forget? He'd gone on about it for <em>days<em>.

"Yeah, I told you, didn't I? So we got on the horses and everything should've been alright. He was in the high street, after all. He couldn't have got far, could he? He isn't that smart; no one can find a hiding place there, it's full of people!"

"But he did. We got there, and he was gone. No one was giving us a straight answer – if I didn't know any better, I'd say they were _helping_ the man..."

"Oh, I highly doubt that," muttered Morwenna, although she wasn't entirely sure.

"Well, it almost seemed like it... and suddenly, he comes bursting out of an alleyway. Nearly scared the horses! Well, most of 'em, anyway; Maximus was well-behaved..."  
>A small smile appeared on Rusthaven's face as he remembered his horse. Morwenna noticed it and, for some reason she couldn't figure out, felt a pang of jealousy.<p>

"So, we chased after him. People got out of our way, we didn't have any more annoying bystanders... we were doing really well, and I was certain we were going to get him at last! _Certain_! Then he gets to the gate, and what happens? He vanishes again!" He banged his fist on the armrest. "How does he _do_ that? How does he vanish in the middle of a crowded street?"

Morwenna shrugged.

"I mean, he's not got magic powers, has he? He's scum! Criminal scum! It shouldn't be that easy! He shouldn't be able to just... poof away like that! None of the other criminals can do it, so why can he? What does he _do?"_

"So we go off looking for him again, and _no one_ can find him! No one! Ten of my best men and they can't find _one thief_! Even Maximus couldn't figure out where he'd gone! Then Tranur starts talking about how he's probably slipped out of the gate, but how could he do that? We'd have seen him! Maximus would've been able to find him easily if that was all he'd done, but it can't have been! Where did he _go?"_

He banged his fist on the armrest again, so powerfully it made the chair shake and almost knocked Morwenna off. She tried to ignore this disrespect to her person and stroked the Captain on the shoulder.

"Oh, dearest," she cooed. "It wasn't _your_ fault. I'm sure you were doing a _marvellous_ job. You always are."

The Captain sighed. "Tell that to the victims," he groaned. "This guy, this Count; he was _furious. _Shouting all sorts of stuff at me. I can't repeat it; not the sort of thing a lady should hear. But he was just shouting at me, and I suppose I should be used to it by now, but it still ticks me off! _Rider's_ the one he should be blaming! _Rider!"_

His hand clenched into a fist, and Morwenna braced herself for another attack on the chair. This time, it didn't come. Instead, he slipped his other arm around her waist as he ended his rant in the usual way.

"I'm telling you," he said. "I can't _wait _until he finally slips up. I can't _wait_ for the day when we finally get him. There's a cell waiting for him, and I won't rest until he's in it; or swinging from a noose. Even better. Then I'll wipe that smirk off his face."

Morwenna couldn't wait, too, but she didn't like the odds. Rusthaven had made a similar promise a couple of days ago, and several more days before that. In fact, barely a week went by without the Captain ranting about Flynn Rider; rants which Morwenna was forced to listen to. It was either that, or admit that she just didn't care; which, of course, would get her kicked out of the house, and that'd be three years down the drain. But every rant was becoming harder to listen to. They were always the same, and there was always another one just around the corner.

That was why Morwenna hated Flynn Rider. She'd never met the man, and he'd never stolen anything from her. But she did wish the Captain would just _shut up_ about him.

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><p><strong>AN: This was another idea that came barging into my head. I liked the idea and I just worked with it as best I could. **

**Please let me know if I did anything wrong, particularly in terms of their relationships, and please, please let me know if Morwenna (or any of my other OCs, for that matter) needs to be improved. I've been feeling a bit paranoid lately. **

**Thanks for your patience and your reviews. I'm glad so many people like these oneshots; I didn't expect them to be as popular as they are and I'm not planning on stopping anytime soon. **


	7. A man and his horse

**A/N: Here's another idea I've had in my head for awhile. It took awhile to write because I got a cold halfway through it. Yes, it's another Captain story, although it's more about Maximus than anything else. I'll get back to the other guards next, I promise. **

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><p><strong>7. A man and his horse<strong>

By the time Captain Rusthaven left the palace, the sun had vanished over the horizon. The streets were empty of any sign of life. Everyone had gone home. Technically, he should've been at home, too, but he couldn't face it. He wasn't ready to tell anyone what had just happened. Heck, he couldn't even admit it to himself.

He sat down on a nearby wall, rubbed his face with his hand and sighed. So many thoughts were running through his head. Random thoughts, mostly; thoughts about his life, his job, what the future held for him...

Mostly, he found himself thinking about Maximus.

Captain Rusthaven could still remember the first time he'd set eyes on Maximus. It had been about ten years ago, and he'd been standing at the edge of a large meadow. He'd just been a lieutenant then, a man with high aspirations but not much hope of ever actually getting them. He hadn't even wanted a horse, really; he was only there because Captain Winters had insisted on it. "What's an officer without a horse, Roderick?" were his exact words. Rusthaven respected the man far too much to argue with him, so here he was, watching the group of animals on the other side of the meadow.

"Beautiful creatures, aren't they?" sighed the grizzled old man next to him. "Watched 'em all grow up, I have. You won't find any better animals in the whole kingdom."

Rusthaven nodded politely. The truth was, he honestly couldn't tell the difference. He'd never liked animals that much; never saw much point in having them around.

"So," the old man continued. "Winters told me you were looking for a cavalry horse."

Rusthaven nodded again.

"Anything in particular?"  
>Rusthaven had no idea what he meant. He shook his head. "As long as it can do the job."<p>

"Well, as luck would have it, I've got the perfect horse for you. A stallion, from a whole line of military horses. Perfect for a big fella like yourself. I'll just go get him."

As he watched the old man walk away, Rusthaven leant back against the fence. This was a waste of time, he thought to himself. He didn't need a horse. Why, he could've got some serious work done instead of waiting around here! Criminals were roaming the kingdom and here he was, standing around in a meadow waiting for a horse he didn't-

"Here he is! Fine fella, isn't he?"

Standing before the soldier was a huge white stallion, looking down at him in the manner of a lord waiting to be introduced. He _was_ a fine horse; the kind of horse who usually belonged to kings and generals.

"Picked him out, I did, when Winters told me about you. I offered this boy to him, but he said no, I've got my own. Give it to my best officer, he said, the one who'll be coming round. So here he is."

"What's his name?" asked Rusthaven, staring at the horse in awe.

"Well, that's up to you, if you want him. Me, I used to call him Walter."

The soldier wrinkled his nose.

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"A horse like that..." Rusthaven nodded in the horse's direction. "It deserves a greater name than that. Something... something with _distinction_."

"Like?"

He turned to look at the horse again, and in that moment, something happened. It wasn't just a matter of wanting the horse; it was whether he felt worthy enough to be this creature's master. He could buy this horse, but that would not be enough. He felt like he would have to earn its respect, and he could start by giving it a name worthy of its majesty.

"Maximus," he uttered at last.

"Eh?" said the old man. "Well, he's certainly big enough. Come on, let's talk about how you're gonna pay for this fella..."

For a long time, Rusthaven only saw Maximus as a horse. A fine horse, certainly, but just a horse. It wasn't until nine months later that he made the connection between Maximus and his stroke of luck at work.

He and the other men had been chasing a thief. The man had snuck into a royal ball and successfully robbed half the guests before vanishing out of one of the windows. One of the watchers had spotted him near the harbour. The chase was on. They'd spread out, searching every ship they could find, before Winters suggested they give up.

Rusthaven was appalled by this. "Sir," he gasped. "You're not going to let him get away, are you?"

"I have no choice," the Captain had replied. "The man's gone. Vanished."

"But he's a thief!"

"You think I haven't noticed? Come on, men; let's go. He's not going to stick around here."

As the others turned away, Rusthaven looked at their faces and felt anger surge inside him. They'd given up so _easily_! Yes, thieves hid, but they couldn't hide forever! Was he the only one who_ cared_ if this man got caught or not?

Then he noticed the way Maximus was acting. The horse had lowered his head to the ground, and... was he_ sniffing_ it? Before he could wonder too much about it, Maximus broke into a run and dashed straight towards an inn at the edge of the harbour, his master hanging on for dear life. Just as he reached the sign, the horse abruptly drew to a halt, so suddenly it almost sent Rusthaven flying.

"What the-?"

But before he could finish his sentence, the horse began sniffing at the empty beer barrels outside the door. At least, they looked empty. Hiding in one of them, looking just as confused as the soldier, was the thief they'd been trying to catch.

That night, after he'd brought the man in, Rusthaven had crept down to the stables and slipped his horse a couple of apples.

"You caught that man today, didn't you?" he asked.

The horse bent its head, almost like it was nodding.

"And the others... the other criminals I caught... that was you as well?"

Another nod.

It was like a light had been switched on in his head. Of course; it explained everything. He'd never been bad at catching criminals, but he'd never been _this_ good, not until he'd bought this horse. Whenever he'd tracked those men down, he'd always had Maximus with him. And the way he'd nodded at him just now... well, that clinched it. This horse wasn't just helping him out; this horse was _smart_. In fact, Rusthaven would go as far as to say this horse was a genius.

But Rusthaven had never been good at expressing emotion. He'd never known how to express love or pride without feeling like a bit of a sap. All he said was "good boy, Max."

From that point on, Rusthaven and Maximus were a team. Between them, they caught more men than the rest of the Royal Guard. The soldier stopped seeing his horse as a method of transportation; he started seeing him as a comrade, even a friend. This was a new experience for Rusthaven. He didn't have many friends; he didn't really know how to make them. He had so little patience for people's flaws that he tended to prefer his own company. The only exceptions were the people he liked enough to tolerate those flaws, and they were few and far between.

With Maximus, however, things were different; not just because the horse was virtually flawless, but because he saw something of himself in him. Maximus seemed to loathe criminals as much as he did; and, perhaps more importantly, he was determined. Rusthaven liked that. He couldn't abide laziness, especially since he was so devoted to his own work. When they set out to catch someone, the horse never gave up until the job was done. Rusthaven liked that, too.

By the time he became Captain of the Guard, Rusthaven could no longer think of Maximus as "just a horse". He was much, much more than that. Maximus was smarter, braver and a lot more confident than most of his men. Sometimes he even found himself talking to the horse, telling him things about his life. Maybe the horse didn't understand him, but it _felt _like he did, and that was the important thing. He had far more meaningful conversations with Maximus than he did with anyone else, and the fact that the horse would never be able to tell anyone what he'd heard only added to their friendship. Because the Captain would call it that; a friendship. He'd never have given up on that horse...

... But Maximus, it seemed, had given up on him.

Captain Rusthaven was used to being let down. He had high expectations and not a lot of patience, so being let down was something that happened to him a lot. He didn't like it, but he'd accepted it as a fact of life; something that happened, and was out of his control. But this time, as he set off for home again, he felt a strong sense of despair. Not enough to make him cry – Rusthaven wasn't a man who cried easily – but enough to slow his footsteps and bring him to a halt once again. He felt devastated; devastated and, deep down, more than a little bit angry.

_Betrayed_, he realised. _I've been betrayed. _

He thought back to his meeting with the King, when he'd been told he was getting replaced. He remembered the discussion about Rider's escape. He remembered meeting his future successor; and, worst of all, when that thief had bragged about how he'd escaped. The King thought it was just a demonstration of how smart Maximus was, but the Captain could see right through Rider's little act. He was bragging, and could Rusthaven blame him? That man was still alive... thanks to Rusthaven's horse. His comrade. His friend.

He had no idea why Maximus had done it. That wasn't the point. The point was, he _had_; and now he was going to have Rusthaven's job, too. That horse _knew _how much he'd loved his job.

The Captain shook his head and kept on walking.

_It's the same old story, _he told himself. _I do my best, and someone goes and ruins everything. It's always the same. I'll just have to forget about him. He's not worthy of me anymore. If he prefers the company of criminals, so be it. That's his problem. It's not worth getting upset over. _

And it wasn't; he knew that. He'd move on, somehow, and he'd put the offender out of his life forever. It wasn't that hard to do.

He just wished it wasn't Maximus.


	8. The other side of the bars

**8. ****The ****other ****side ****of ****the ****bars**

_Dedicated to "Astro Latte" and the members of "Team Conli". I didn't quite start this in your honour, but you all inspired me to finish it during a period of writer's block. _

David Conli should never have been a guard. He knew it, his colleagues knew it and his neighbours knew it. The only ones who didn't know it were his family.

"It's a tradition!" his mother had barked at him. "Your father was a guard, your brother's a guard... every man in this family has been in the service! Besides, you need a proper job! How are you gonna support me in my old age?"  
>As he walked towards the dungeons that day, David found himself thinking about that family tradition. His mother was right; every man in his family <em>had<em>enlisted. There was not one generation of guards without at least one "Conli" in it. The fact that none of these men had ever achieved much in his career wasn't important; they still flocked to enlist, and provided they were in good health, they always made it into the Royal Guard. It was a testament to how few people actually signed up, for none of the Conlis were really that good at soldiering. David, in his own opinion, was the worst of the lot. He was constantly sick, he was painfully shy and he was scared of everything. He was particularly scared of large men, mostly because they always kicked his ass. Conli wasn't a fighter by nature. That was another reason he shouldn't have been a guard.

This was the thing he hated about "dungeon duty"; all those large men. Sometimes they escaped, and when they did, they were angry. None had ever escaped on Conli's watch, but what if they did? He'd be first in line!

He gulped, picked up his spear and made his way along the dingy corridor. None of the other guards acknowledged him. Good. He didn't feel like talking, anyway. As he walked, he glanced at the prisoners. Some sat on the ground; the ones fortunate enough to have a window in their cell gazed longingly out of it. Conli stayed as far away from them as possible. They may not look like they cared, but he'd heard stories of guards getting grabbed through the bars. He didn't like the thought of that, so he stayed straight in the middle of the corridor, as far out of their reach as possible. There were cells on either side. It wasn't an easy task.

Had he not looked in the bars on his way there, his life might've gone on as normal. He might've gone onto his post, afraid of the men he was supposed to be guarding. He might've been that way for the rest of his life, had he not glanced absent-mindedly at one of the cells and seen the two huge, red-haired men crouching within.

Conli shuddered. He remembered these two; oh, yes, he remembered them _really_well. The Stabbington Brothers were exactly the type of man Conli feared; large, mean and severely lacking in the negotiation department. His head still ached from the last time he'd met them, when he'd been on the recovery team and the Captain had asked him to watch them. Conli hadn't had a choice in the matter, of course. He'd been left alone with these brutes and, predictably, they kicked his ass. That was why he avoided situations like that. That was why he tried to lay low, to blend in with the other guards so the odds of him being called out weren't so high.

"What're you doing?"

Conli jumped at the sound of the voice. He spun around, almost dropping his spear – and relaxed. It was only Sergeant Gordon, and _he_wasn't going to lay into him-

"Aren't you supposed to be at your post, Conli?"

Oops; maybe he was.

"S-sorry, Sir!" Conli stammered, saluting him quickly. "I was – I was just –"

"Looking at the prisoners?"

"Y-yes, Sir." Well, he was. No need to make the situation worse by lying.

Gordon glanced over the younger man's shoulder. "Funny you should choose _them,_" he said to Conli. "Are you aware they're being hanged today?"

Conli shook his head.

"Well, they are; couple of hours from now. Not worth wasting your time on them."

As if to prove his point, Gordon walked away, leaving Conli to stare at the Stabbingtons. One of them glanced up at him, and the guard flinched – but all the man did was sigh, before turning his attention to the floor again. He looked defeated. They both did. They certainly didn't look like the brutes who'd knocked him out.

_But__why__should__they?_Conli realised. _They__'__re__going__to__die.__It__doesn__'__t__matter__how__tough__they__are;__they__'__ll__be__swinging__from__the__noose__before__the__day__is__out._

Another thought immediately popped into his mind, a thought he'd never even considered before.

_I'm not. I'll still be alive. I've won. _

What had he won? Life, perhaps? All those large men who'd terrified him over the years, all the ruffians who'd knocked him out or broken his arm; where'd they end up? Dead, or imprisoned, or on the run. Meanwhile, he was still breathing. He'd never be as tough as these men, but he had a job, and a family. He had a proper life.

He didn't pity those men – he wasn't ready to feel sorry for them yet – but, as he finally set off for his post, he didn't feel quite so afraid of them.


	9. Hobbes

**A/N: I think it's worth warning you that there's a change in tone between this and the other stories. It's a lot darker, for one. One of the reasons I wrote it was because I was falling into the same trap as a lot of people; assuming the guards were all the same. In my case, I was assuming that _none _of them could be stupid or cruel, as opposed to all of them. I'd also like to point out that the views depicted in this story are not my own. **

* * *

><p><strong>9. Hobbes<strong>

Hobbes had been outside for nearly three hours. At first, he'd had an excuse – he was supposed to be supervising the construction of the gallows – but now that was done and he leant against a pillar and watched the rope swing in the wind. It was a cold night, and the sun was just starting to creep over the horizon, but Hobbes didn't care. He'd stood out here before, sometimes for longer periods than this. You had to claim your spot early, or you'd never get a decent view. It was difficult enough when he was dealing with an ordinary execution; the whole army would probably turn up for this one. After all, it's not often you saw someone like Flynn Rider hang.

It was to happen at dawn. That was what the Captain had said, when he'd ordered Hobbes into his office. Rider would hang at dawn, and the gallows had to be ready by then. Even as he'd made this command, he knew Hobbes would get it done. The man _always_volunteered for this kind of thing; that was why he'd sent for him. The Captain would be lying if he said he didn't find it a bit disturbing, but Hobbes always did a good job so he couldn't complain.

Now, Hobbes admired his handiwork. He was the only one who could; the men who'd helped him had gone to bed, and there were no other guards about. Not that they'd associate with him anyway. There was something very unpleasant about Hobbes, something even the officers had picked up on. He had no friends and if anyone was forced to go on duty with him, they'd stand as far away as possible and avoid any conversation. It was not so much because of his appearance – Hobbes was an average-looking man and kept his uniform immaculate – but because there was something about him, something that was just _wrong_.

Hobbes didn't mind this. He didn't want anyone's company and he didn't like unnecessary chit-chat. The other men wouldn't understand, anyway. No one ever did.

Ever since he was a boy, Hobbes had been fascinated by death. His father had been an undertaker, and he'd often had to assist him, so dead bodies did not disturb him. He was amazed by how easily a person's life could be wiped out. Young or old, rich or poor... none of it mattered. No one was spared from death, regardless of which form it took itself; and there were so many ways. Illness, murder, old age... It was all so ominous. It was as if death was an all-powerful god, able to strike down whenever it saw fit. And if death was a god, then Hobbes was his devoted worshipper.

It became a fixation for him. In his teens, when he saw a pretty girl, he wondered how she would die. He wondered how many people had lost their lives on the cobblestones he walked on. Part of the reason he joined the Guards was because he'd have such close contact with death. This was not something the other men knew. He'd kept quiet about his "interest" as he called it, and since he was in good shape and reasonably smart, he was recruited without a second thought.

He'd tried talking about it once, to old Wilfred. He was the one who provided the rope for the gallows, had been for years, and he sometimes stuck around to see if it worked. He seemed content to listen at first. However, when Hobbes had grown increasingly more enthusiastic, he'd given him an odd look and asked if he was alright. He must've said something to the Captain, too, because that very afternoon Hobbes was sent for a "talk" with the prison's psychiatrist. They hadn't told him why, but Hobbes knew. They thought he was mad. He'd fumed with the indignity of it, but he'd managed to keep his mouth shut during his visit to Dr Magellan and he'd left the man thinking his mind was perfectly sound. As he should, because it was, wasn't it?

The other men seemed to agree with the doctor, so Hobbes was left alone. He felt slightly bitter about the accusation, but he still followed orders and tried to be a good soldier. And he volunteered to assist with any executions, of course. They were the only entertainment Hobbes had nowadays. It seemed that he was the only one who appreciated the irony of them. By killing these "criminal scum" – these thieves and murderers who'd apparently been deemed too unpleasant to live – they were making them equal to kings and generals. Where death was concerned, no one was better than anyone else.

Hobbes would never point this out to anyone. There was no way they'd ever understand. But he found it humorous that Rider, who'd been a thorn in his superiors' side for so long, was going to be given such an honour. And he wouldn't miss it for the world.


	10. The Princess's return

**10. The Princess's return**

When Christopher Birchwood heard about the return of the Lost Princess, he couldn't believe it at first. He questioned no less than five of his relatives and even attempted a journey into the centre of town before he realised that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. She'd returned. She was alive.

He burst into tears. He fell to his knees – not particularly unremarkable, as he was not in the best of health – and buried his head in his hands. A few people gave him some funny looks, but Birchwood stayed where he was. Only when his housekeeper came to get him did he make any response.

"Come on, Commander," she said, taking his arm and helping him to his feet. "Time to go home."

He didn't remind her not to call him "Commander", as he often had to; he hadn't been a commander of anything for the last eighteen years, and he didn't want to be reminded of the years before that. But what did those years matter now? She was back. She was alive.

That was what he kept muttering as she led him back down the street; "she's alive". The housekeeper didn't say anything. She'd always suspected old Birchwood was going mad, and this incident only confirmed it. She'd have a word with his nephew about that, make no mistake.

"But what are we supposed to _do_ with him, Mary?"

"He's _your_ uncle, Stanley. It's not my place to say."

Birchwood staggered out of his armchair and made his way towards the stairs. They wouldn't notice he was gone. They hadn't even cared enough to close the door. Birchwood had ceased to become a person to his relatives; only a burden.

Slowly, because he'd long lost the ability to move any faster, he crept up the stairs. Behind him, he heard his nephew and housekeeper continuing their discussion in the dining room. He wasn't interested in it at all. They had talks like this at least once a month, talks about what they were going to do with "that poor old man", and they never amounted to anything. Birchwood was still here, in the house he'd owned since he inherited it at thirty-one, and that was just fine with him.

He ducked under the doorway to his room. He was a tall man, with a pointed face and a wispy beard drifting from his chin. His clothes hung off him. He never bothered to find any that would fit – that would involve going out, which he rarely did now his health was so poor. His memory wasn't what it used to be, and he wasn't as strong as he once was. If Birchwood attempted to go out, he knew he'd only do damage to himself and to anyone else he came across. He didn't want that. He'd done enough damage in his life.

Perhaps he was exaggerating. He hadn't been a bad soldier, had he? He'd certainly been good enough to become Commander of the Royal Guard. He'd been a different man, then; smarter, faster, stronger...

But his health was deteriorating even then. That's why it had happened in the first place. He should've retired before the Princess was born. He should've handed his job to some younger, more capable man.

He dug through his closet and dragged out his old uniform. Would it still fit him? Perhaps. Was he fit to wear it? Of course not. Why else had he buried it away?

"It's different," he said to himself. "She's alive."

But eighteen years of guilt are hard to erase in one day. As he stared at the uniform he used to be so proud of, he found he could remember it vividly. Odd, really; he'd forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and visits, but he could still remember the one thing he'd dearly like to forget.

He'd been sixty-two back then, and trying to hide his poor health. No one had noticed it, not even the King, and he was determined to keep it that way. Birchwood needed his job; it was all he had. Yet, even as he went about his duties, he knew something was wrong with him. He couldn't keep up with his men anymore, so he limited himself to a proud stride. His arms began to ache, so he avoided writing as much as possible. He began to forget things. Important things.

He'd been present when the Princess was born, and he'd sworn there and then not to let anything happen to that little girl. No matter what happened, no matter how ill he got, he'd always be there to protect the Royal Family. He'd spent more time with them than his own relatives, and he was fairly confident he would die for them.

Then he forgot to post guards outside the Princess's window.

He wished he could say he'd thought it was unnecessary, that no person could possibly get inside that way. It would've been a justifiable excuse; after all, who could've expected that woman to get in? The truth of the matter, however, was that he'd simply forgotten, just like he'd forgotten to have breakfast that day. It had slipped through the cracks in his memory, so he'd gone to his quarters and slept. The first he'd known about it was when they'd banged on his door, waking him up in the middle of the night to tell him the princess had been stolen.

He remembered the audience with the King and Queen. He'd spent most of it staring at his boots, unable to look the distraught couple in the eye. For their part, they'd been remarkably calm about it. They understood that his memory wasn't perfect, and of course the little girl should've been perfectly safe in that room. No one could've known this was going to happen. But Birchwood knew they were just being considerate. That's the kind of people they were; always kind, always thinking about the feelings of others. That's why they were so popular in the first place. However, in Birchwood's eyes, that only made his mistake even worse. He'd ruined the lives of two good people just because he wanted to hang on to his job a little bit longer.

He'd retired soon afterwards. No one made any objections; no one even said goodbye to him. Birchwood couldn't blame them for that. He'd retreated to his home, buried his uniform in the closet and waited for his health to fade away altogether. It was not a pleasant life – certainly not in comparison to that of the other retired officers he'd met in the past – but Birchwood didn't deserve a pleasant life after what he'd done.

_But she's alive now. Alive, and home. Those lanterns of theirs; they worked at last. _

That was what they were saying, but was it true? There'd been impersonators in the past, and so many people believed she was dead. He was one of those people. After all, what kind of person would steal a baby like that? What kind of person could even get into a room so high up?

_But she's back with her family now. Everything's right once again. _

He felt the tears run down his face again. He was happy, but not for himself. It was far too late in his life for him to really redeem himself. No, his happiness was for the King and Queen he'd loved like his own family. They'd got their daughter back. They were no longer paying the price for his mistake.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I know this one's probably only connected to the guards in the loosest sense, but I wanted to explore it. I always wondered how Gothel managed to get into the castle. Who was in charge of security? How did he feel about being responsible for such a situation? I just kept wondering and, eventually, it led to this. _

_Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome. _


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